


Man Down

by AuthorToBeNamedLater



Series: Keeping Up With The Raptors [6]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Brain Injury, Canada, Concussions, Edmonton Oilers, Gen, Head Injury, Hockey, Injury, Major Character Injury, NHL, National Hockey League, Prayer, Raptors, Seattle, Serious Injuries, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorToBeNamedLater/pseuds/AuthorToBeNamedLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't want to start your hockey career with a concussion. But you can't always get what you want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man Down

**Author's Note:**

> Vladimir Klyukin is not real and the author holds no ill will toward the Edmonton Oilers.

The season opener represented new beginnings. Whatever happened last year went away. Every team was 0-0-0, whether they'd won the Stanley Cup, finished dead last in the league, or lost the Stanley Cup.

It was one of the most comforting nights of the year for Jake Wheeler, who had been play-by-play guy for the Raptors almost since the team's inaugural season. The players now had to stop looking backwards and start looking forward, and the analysts could stop carrying on about what-ifs of the past and start carrying on about the what-ifs of the future. And the fans—Wheeler counted himself as one, or he wouldn't have hung in all this time—could forgive their team for not delivering the previous year.

Wheeler was a small, gray-haired man who some said resembled a Keebler elf. He had a congenial smile and wry wit. He was approaching 70 and could have retired years ago, but as long as he still had his voice Wheeler saw no reason to leave the job he loved. Next to him in the broadcast booth at Rexall Place in Edmonton, Alberta sat his exact opposite, at least in appearance.

Dan Obenshain, the Raptors' color man, was tall and handsome and young (48 was young when you had children almost that age, Wheeler liked to remind his counterpart) and fairly new to the broadcasting business. He'd played for the Raptors back in the 1990s and then gone to the Chicago Blackhawks. He'd then started working as an in-studio analyst for Root Sports Northwest, the Raptors' TV carrier. He'd come along to the broadcast booth when former color man Keith O'Connor went to NHL Network in 2010. In Wheeler's opinion “Obi” had the potential to be one of the best color guys in hockey. He had a relaxed, friendly broadcasting style that gave viewers the feeling of sitting in a sports bar while a very knowledgeable hockey fan broke down each play.

The two telecasters had sat through the Oilers' home opening festivities and were now ready to bring Raptors hockey to the fans.

“You ready?” Wheeler asked as “The Star-Spangled Banner” drew to a close.

Obenshain nodded once and adjusted his headset. “Let's get this party started.”

.

.

.

25 seconds into his first NHL shift, Mark Shearer felt like he was back in peewees. Well, maybe more like juniors. Whatever it was, he felt about half a step behind everyone else on the ice.

This was the same game he'd played his entire life. Except it was faster. Much faster. Stuff that took thirty seconds to happen in juniors seemed to take five seconds here.

Mark—somewhat ungracefully, he thought—sent the puck across the ice to Ricky and set to hustling into Edmonton's end

_Relax. It's the first shift in the first period of your first NHL game. You'll have--_

The next thing the rookie could finish thinking _“The rest of your life to get good at this_ ,” something large and heavy collided with his right side, knocking him off his feet and onto his back.

.

.

.

The whistle blew, the arena hushed, and LaJeunesse felt every muscle in his body tighten.

Mark lay on the ice, conscious but clearly unresponsive, arms hovering above his chest in the fencing response.

_Concussion. He's got a concussion._

Doc sprinted out of the tunnel and across the ice, shooing concerned Raptors and Oilers out of the way. “Let me through! Let me through!”

_Klyukin._ LaJeunesse shot a dagger glare at the Oiler who'd felled Mark. _That son of a bitch._

.

.

.

“Get over here, Vlad!”

Hank snapped out of his stupor as Sandy's challenge rang across the ice. He turned around just in time to see the Raptors' goalie drop his gloves, shuck his mask, and start ambling out of the crease.

_Oh, no._ Hank body blocked Sandy in hopes of halting the altercation before it began. “Sandy, Sandy, stop,” he ordered.

 

| 

“Hey! Vlad!” Sandy yelled over Hank’s shoulder. “You want a piece of us, huh? You want a piece of Seattle?”

  
“ _Stop_ , Sandy,” Hank ordered. “I'm serious. Stop.”

  
“Did you see what he did?” Sandy hissed.

  
“Yes. I saw it.” Hank reassured, placing a staying hand on Sandy’s chest. Sandy’s vicious protective streak made him a killer goalie, and a beast when someone he cared about was hurt. “We'll deal with it.”

  
“Deal with it?” Sandy spat. “You can't--”

“Yes, we'll deal with it,” Hank said calmly. “Get back to the crease. You're gonna get a penalty.”

  
“Hank—”

  
“Go back to the crease,” Hank gritted, “and do not say another word.”

Sandy was visibly displeased, but obeyed.  
  
---  
  
   
  
.

.

.

_Why are the lights so bright?_

Mark lay on his back, one hand limply resting on his chest and the other at his side. Everything in the arena seemed more intense than it should. The light was brighter, the noise was louder, the ice was colder.

“Hey, hey.” Doc. It was Doc. She leaned over, mercifully blocking the harsh glare, and placed one hand on Mark's helmet and the other on his chest. Maybe to comfort him, maybe to keep him from moving. “Tell me your name. Can you do that?”

“Mark. Shearer,” Mark answered. It took too much effort. Something was wrong. His head was starting to hurt. “What happened?”

“OK, Mark. Where are you?”

_Where am I? That's a really good question._ “Seattle?”

The look on Doc's face said that was not the right answer. “You're in Edmonton, Mark. Can you move your fingers and toes?”

Mark tried. “Yeah.”

A swarm of medical personnel and teammates were starting to gather around Mark. _What happened? What are all these people doing here? Why won't they tell me what happened?_ His heart started to race.

“What team do you play for?” Doc asked.

“Raptors.” Mark closed his eyes.

“Hey.” Doc firmly tapped his chest. “Keep your eyes open. How old are you?”

“20.” Mark gritted. Doc's Boston accent was going right through him.

“Where are you from?”

“Halifax.” _Why are they asking me this?_

“Do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah.”

“Names?”

“Carolyn and Anna.”

“OK. Parents' names?”

“Dennis and Pam.”

Seemingly satisfied, Doc stood up. “All right, let's get him out of here.”

A paramedic knelt down next to Mark. “Mark, I need you to stay still, all right? We're gonna put you on the stretcher and take you to the hospital.”

.

.

.

In Halifax, Nova Scotia, Dennis Shearer stood watching his laptop in shock while paramedics wheeled his son off the ice.

When Mark signed with the Raptors and jetted off to Seattle, Pam's sister had installed a Slingbox on her TV so Dennis and Pam could see every game on their computer. Well, it was mostly for Pam. Dennis didn't feel the need to watch all 82 games, not counting the playoffs, his son would play this year. He supposed this was a difference between fathers and mothers.

Dennis had certainly never expected to see his boy lying motionless on the ice while paramedics and trainers hovered over him.

Pam started to cry. Dennis numbly put his arms around her.

.

.

.

“Is he OK?” Ricky peeked around Jones' shoulder.

“He's talking,” Jones observed, but he still had that horrible feeling that all hockey players got when they heard the word “concussion.”

“Yeah...” Ricky agreed tepidly.

.

.

.

After five minutes of vamping while the TV replayed Vladimir Klyukin's hit on Mark over and over, Wheeler and Obenshain breathed collective sighs of relief once the paramedics strapped Mark to a stretcher and took him off the ice.

“Play will be resuming here shortly,” Wheeler announced. “And we will, of course, keep you up to date on Mark's condition as we get word.”

“Klyukin's gonna get a major at least on that one,” Obenshain jumped in, momentarily taking over the play-by-play.

“Oh, he's going down the tunnel!” Wheeler exclaimed. “He's out of here. Game misconduct.”

The arena buzzed as the cameras showed the respective coaches: Ralph Krueger looking unhappy yet resigned, William LaJeunesse looking ready to break something.

.

.

.

The Raptors had avenged Mark's injury by winning 3-2. They'd failed to cash in on the five-minute power play following Mark's injury, and the team looked somewhat dazed until Zhenya Rusakov spiced things up with a scrap halfway through the first period. Seattle had then gone up 1-0, only to see Edmonton on top 2-1 by the second intermission. The Raptors had scored twice in two minutes to start the third, and it was all they needed.

As soon as the whole team had gotten into the dressing room, LaJeunesse whistled sharply for quiet.

“Listen up, fellas,” the coach said. “I've got an update on Mark.”

The room went silent and LaJeunesse waited until he had his team's full attention.

“He's at the hospital right now,” the Raptors' head coach reported. “He's got a concussion and he's in a lot of pain, but considering that he landed on his head he's doing pretty well. They'll keep him for observation until he's good to travel and then they'll send him home.” LaJeunesse put his hands on his hips. “Kid's lucky. Damn lucky.”

“Is the league gonna do anything to Vlad?” Sandy asked.

“They'll look at the hit,” LaJeunesse said. Predicting whether Brendan Shanahan, the league's disciplinarian, would issue a suspension was like trying to predict a toddler's moods.

“Is Mark gonna be out awhile?” Ricky piped up.

“Probably,” LaJeunesse said quietly. “Now come on, get changed, do your media stuff and get out to the bus. We've got a plane to San Jose waiting on us.”

LaJeunesse left the dressing room and immediately found himself accosted by a horde of reporters wanting to know what he thought of Vlad's hit on Mark.

LaJeunesse couldn't say exactly what he thought, of course, or ROOTS Sports would be paying a massive fine to the FCC. But he wasn't going to sugar coat it, either. His team was the only family LaJeunesse had. Screw around with them, and you were screwing around with him.

“Vladimir Klyukin is a punk who never should have been in this league in the first place,” LaJeunesse spat, making no attempt to conceal his displeasure. “Taking a guy out like that is unacceptable.”

LaJeunesse knew his comments would be all over ESPN, NBC, and Twitter tomorrow. And he didn't care.

.

.

.

“Hey guys, I'll be right there, OK?” Hank called to Mikey and Jones as the team filed out of Rexall Place to the bus that would take them to the airport. “I've gotta use the bathroom.”

“Why, you need a bath?” Mikey poked at Hank's American dialect.

Hank ignored him. “Don't let the bus leave without me, all right?”

“There's a bathroom on the bus!” Jones hollered at Hank's back.

Hank kept going. Bus bathrooms were not designed for full-grown hockey players. He turned down the hall and stopped dead. There, leaving the restroom that Hank was about to enter, was none other than Vladimir Klyukin. Hank's least favorite player in the National Hockey League.

Vlad was in his mid-30s, tall, strong and gave off an aura of...something Hank couldn't quite pin down. _“Emotionally dead,”_ former Raptors coach Cameron Michaels had called him. Hank had long wondered if Vlad had some kind of disorder that never got diagnosed in the old USSR.

Vlad Klyukin had been a Raptor for all of about six months in 2002, part of a trade deadline deal that went laughably wrong. He and Hank had butted heads from the moment Vlad set foot in the Raptors' dressing room. Vlad was a jerk on and off the ice and had far less talent than a lot of guys toiling away in the minors. Hank honestly couldn't fathom how he'd stuck in the NHL this long. Vlad hopped from team to team, never staying longer than a couple of seasons anywhere.

And he'd deliberately and needlessly hurt one of Hank's teammates tonight.

“Hello, Hank,” Vlad said conversationally, as if Hank were about to ask him to go have a beer.

_Unbelievable._ The Hank Sheridan of 20 years ago might have lost his temper, but the Hank Sheridan of today was pretty good at keeping a lid on it. He thanked his God, his wife, his children, and all the NHL garbage he'd seen over his career. But the old Angry Hank was still there, and when he came out it was ugly for everyone involved.

_Walk away. Don't engage him. You know that won't end well--_

But Deanna Sheridan's oldest boy had never been good at keeping his mouth shut.

“Vlad, what were you thinking?” Hank hissed, his right hand tightening reflexively on his equipment bag. “Mark didn't even have the puck! What did you need to hit him for?”

“I didn't try to,” Vlad said without a hint of contrition.

Hank's anger flared. “Of course you did. You left your feet! That doesn't happen by accident.”

“People get hit in this game, Hank, you should know that.”

“He has a concussion,” Hank informed. “Did you know that? Kid's first game and you could have taken him out for the season. You're not the sharpest tool in the shed, Vlad, but you can't tell me you didn't know what you were doing.”

Vlad cocked his head at Hank. “I thought you were a Christian, Hank. Love your neighbors, turn the other cheek, yes?”

That did it. Hank let his duffel drop to the floor and popped Vlad in the jaw.

“Read your Bible,” Hank snapped as Vlad stumbled to the side and cradled his chin. “Jesus also tossed the moneychangers out of the temple.” Hank picked up his bag. “I've got a plane to catch.”

Hank turned and stalked out of Rexall Place, his indignation starting to ebb. _Nice work, Sheridan. Vlad could charge you with assault and battery for that._

_He won't. He's not smart enough._

“Where the hell have you been?” Pat MacGregor demanded irritably as Hank approached the bus outside the arena.

“Bathroom,” Hank fudged. Truthfully, he still needed the bathroom.

Pat didn't look happy—which was nothing new—and turned to enter the bus. Hank followed him, arriving to a chorus of _“Hey, where you been?”_ and _“Can we leave now, Cap'n?”_ and _“Let's go! While we're young!”_ Hank responded with “Funny, very funny, guys,” and took the first empty seat he could find.

_I really shouldn't have done that, God, should I? I'm sorry. I...I lost it. I got mad and I lost it. I shouldn't have, I know._ Hank leaned his head against the cool glass. _Please help me to see Vlad the way you see him. You don't always sock me in the jaw when I deserve it._

The bus lurched and left the parking lot, transporting the Raptors to Edmonton International Airport where a charter flight waited to take them to California.

Hank closed his eyes post-game exhaustion set in. _Please let Mark be all right..._

.

.

.

At St. Joseph's Auxiliary Hospital in Edmonton, Mark Shearer lay on his bed in agony. His head ached, his stomach churned, his neck hurt, and he was dizzy.

_Oh man, this hurts. I really don't want to throw up again. I just want to sleep. All I want to do is sleep._

Then with no explanation whatsoever the pain evaporated, the room stood still and Mark's stomach settled. He let out a long sigh of relief and let his eyes flutter closed. For the rest of the night, the injured player did not wake once.


End file.
